by Cailyn Lloyd
In that moment, the tavern disappeared. He was in a field surrounded by cheering people. People dressed in clothing from a bygone era, a Renaissance fair. Before him, two horses charged at each other, the horses decked in bright woolen prints. Knights in armor sat atop the horses, wielding jousting spears. They collided—
Lucas looked up to see a cornerback plow into a receiver.
Brief, like a waking dream or a hallucination, the joust was so vivid, Lucas shook his head to clear the image.
Christ! I’m losing my mind! He slugged down an entire glass of beer, trying to wash away the feeling of impending insanity.
Murphy turned to him. “Hey, Lucas, you okay? You don’t look so good.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
He wasn’t fine and knew it.
Stress? Was that it? Had to be. First Jacob, then Nate, now the marriage. What could he do? Laura was driving the wedge between them with her premonitions and obsessions about the house. With her suspicions and accusations. Her pestering. Her nagging. Laura, whose every word grated on his nerves like the high-pitched whine of a coyote.
What could he do?
The answer was obvious.
Laura had to go.
Forty-Two
“Laura! Wake up! Come on. Leah’s crying, and I have to get going.” Lucas shook her shoulder roughly.
Laura opened an eye and peered over the comforter at her antagonist. Lucas loomed, dressed in hunting gear.
“What happened to you?” he said. “You look like shit.”
“Huh?”
“Where’d you get that bruise?”
Bruise? Her tumble at the cemetery. “I fell.”
“That was stupid of you.” He was staring at her neck. Why was he staring like that?
She sat up and said angrily, “Not so fast. I want to talk to you.”
“I’ve got to go. Leah was crying a minute ago—”
Her anger swelled further. “Then why don’t you take care of her? She’s your granddaughter too, you know.”
“That’s your job. That was the deal.”
“The ‘deal’ never included ignoring her. Since we’ve moved here, you’ve hardly acknowledged her existence.”
“Whatever.” He turned and left, clomping down the stairs.
As she climbed out of bed, she heard the front door open. She yelled, “Lucas!”
The door slammed.
Laura laid down and cried. She had been afraid to cry, afraid if she cried, she would never stop. Instead, the tears relieved her pent-up emotions, her anger, and broke the gloomy mood with which she had awoken. Laura realized she could remain there sniveling, but sniveling would change nothing. She shook off her self-pity, slid from bed, and walked to Leah’s room.
Bouncing at the side of the crib, Leah yelled, “Gama. Gama!”
Leah’s smiling face worked magic on Laura, and she hugged her lovingly, grateful for this oasis of comfort in the discomfort around her. After settling her down to breakfast, Laura stood at the window of the kitchen, soaking up warm rays of sunlight. Outside, the sun was brilliant, glinting off the spindly bones of the trees and the shrubs petrified by a rime of ice.
The ice glaze reminded her of another problem. The Honda. Laura called her 24-hour roadside assistance and gave them the location of the vehicle. Laura and Leah dressed, then played and sat reading a book until someone knocked at the door. A skinny teenager stood there, needing a signature for the tow. Laura tipped him and left the house a few minutes later for Brenda’s with Leah, planning to stop by Sally’s and visit Reverend Drew at the church.
* * *
Laura stopped at the small brick house next to the motel and knocked on the door. She should’ve called, but she was running on impulse.
Sally wasn’t home so she drove the short distance to the church. Laura hadn’t attended church since Leah’s baptism and only randomly before. She didn’t know why she’d neglected her faith, but she regretted it now, longing for the comfort and security of a higher power. Her contrary then voice mocked, only because you’re in trouble, Laura. Only because you’re in trouble.
If there was a problem with the house, some sort of haunting—
If? Why was she clinging to if?
The house was haunted, and this seemed the logical place to seek advice. She banged on the door with the stern-looking knocker and waited, rubbing her hands together briskly. A smiling Reverend Drew answered wearing his gown and collar. She decided he was an attractive man, even in his vestments.
“Mrs. MacKenzie, hello. What can I do for you?”
“May I come in?” Laura asked sheepishly. Seeing him in his gown and collar made her nervous. He seemed more official, less accessible.
“Yes, please, silly of me. It’s cold out.” He stood aside and waved Laura in. “Did I see you in the cemetery yesterday? It looked like you.”
“Yes. I was doing a little family research. That’s what I came to talk to you about—if you have time.”
“Surely. I’ve dressed early; I have a funeral in an hour. Let’s go to my office.”
They walked down a long corridor lined with closed doors, the walls unadorned, the old plaster crazed with cracks and ridges like tiny fault lines. His office was a cubbyhole at the end of the hall, a study in chaos. The ragtag shelves on the walls were chock full of books, loose-leaf binders, and stray pieces of paper. The small desk was cluttered, and the floor was littered with boxes filled with more papers and books. He moved a box from a straight-back chair and motioned for Laura to sit.
“As you can see, I wasn’t expecting company. Did you find the information you were looking for?”
“Yes…and no.” Laura was nervous, not sure where to start. “The older stones are in good condition, which made it easier.”
“They are. They’re mostly marble or granite; they’ll last a long time yet,” he said, sitting at his desk. “I wish I could say the same for the headstones in the back. They’re mostly limestone and heavily weathered.”
“Headstones? What headstones?” Laura looked up from her fidgeting fingers.
“You probably didn’t see them. They’re behind the arborvitaes. I never thought to mention them to you. The stones are too weathered to read anyway.” He leaned forward. “I’ve heard some of the townspeople tell interesting stories about that plot.”
“Like what?”
“They say it was already here when the first settlers arrived.” He chuckled. “I love these small-town superstitions.”
“I’d like to see it,” Laura said reluctantly, knowing she had to, dreading what she would find.
“Okay, but I won’t join you. You can use the door over there.”
Laura let herself out and trudged through the icy grass, around the tall arborvitae wall. Stopped dead in her tracks.
There, encircled by a small stone wall, sat thirty or forty stones set close together, green with mold, snow and ice caps on their rounded tops, looking like a platoon of dwarf soldiers. She had been here, long ago, in a dream—it seemed like years now—and though MacKenzie Corner wasn’t painted on any stone, this was the same place. Only the names were no longer visible, rubbed off by centuries of wind, rain, and frost. Laura didn’t need names to know who was buried here. They were all MacKenzies, every last one of them. She squatted by one stone, touching gently as if in a trance, her finger tracing a worn groove in the flaky stone, letters that were barely discernable:
M A C…
Why were these stones here?
A growing dread whispered to her, “You know why!”
Answers too fantastic even for her vivid imagination. She felt certain none of these people had died in Lost Arrow. Laura was equally sure none of these stones belonged here. The stones stood mute, taunting her.
There’s no escape.
Run as far as you can. We’ll drag you back here anyway. Back here to rot in a pine box the way we dragged Elizabeth back.
Stop it!
Still,
Laura sensed it was so, and the insight chilled her more than the coldest January night in Wisconsin. This plot was a ghost—of the past, of the future—a twisted Dickensian ghost of the MacKenzie clan going back generations. Laura knew she had come to the right place. The wind moaned through the bare trees in a plaintive wail. Laura felt alone, and her life suddenly looked bleak. She stood and trudged back to the rectory.
The reverend stood as she walked into the room. “So, what did you—are you okay, Mrs. MacKenzie? You look pale.”
“Not really. It’s part of what I came to talk about.” Laura shed her coat and sat down.
“Let’s talk then. That’s what I’m here for,” he said gently. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands on his knees.
Laura dropped her gaze to her fidgeting fingers. This was more difficult than she imagined.
“Take your time; I’m in no hurry.”
A quick breathing exercise, then Laura related everything in a slow methodical manner—the explosion and her episode that day, the noises, the doors slamming, the falling knives and the fireplace screen, her meeting with Sally, the album, the woman in the hallway, the rumors about the house. Now, spoken aloud, her words sounded crazy.
Reverend Drew sat silently, face impassive, listening to every word, fingers steepled. Laura finished and waited nervously for a response. He maintained steady eye contact and said, “Well, it seems you have some mild psychic abilities.”
“I’ve known that since I was six.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I’ve—I’ve never liked it.”
“Do you feel guilty about your brother-in-law?” His gaze was sympathetic. He was good at this.
“What do you mean?”
“Having, to some extent, foreseen his accident?”
“No—yes…I don’t know.”
“Have you been depressed?”
Laura saw the path of his reasoning. “You think this is in my head, don’t you?”
“I don’t doubt your psychic abilities are genuine. I’m quite a fan of the subject, and you tell a convincing story. As for the rest of it...”
Here comes the you’ve-been-under-a-big-strain lecture. He thinks I’m crazy!
He clasped his hands together nervously, set them on his knee, and continued, “I see someone who’s been subjected to a great deal of stress. The death of your son. Caring for his child. Your brother-in-law’s accident and the loss of his wife as a friend. The breakdown of your marriage—that amount of stress would have driven a great many people out of their minds. I think you’ve coped with it well, and it doesn’t surprise me that you’ve transferred some of the guilt and anxiety you feel onto the house. It’s a common phenomenon. A little counseling—”
“You think I’m crazy.”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
“But you don’t believe me either.” A trace of sarcasm in her voice. She couldn’t help it.
“I’m looking for the most obvious answer here. You haven’t actually said so, but you’ve implied your house is haunted.”
“I guess so, yes.”
“I’m trained for good reasons to steer clear of such conclusions when it seems evident psychological issues may be involved, and that seems to be the case here.” He leaned forward, spreading his hands. “For all you know, you may also be telekinetic. That would explain the falling and shifting objects.”
An interesting point, one she hadn’t considered. “And if the obvious isn’t at work here?”
“True hauntings are rare, Mrs. MacKenzie.” Hands clasped together on knees, his eye contact unflinching. “Most cases have conventional explanations, so it would be difficult to accept that there’s a genuine haunting here in my parish. Do you understand?”
“I do. What about the album?”
“I don’t know. Death is a part of life. That may be the only point the album makes. It sounds macabre, I agree. Your mother-in-law’s approach to dealing with her grief doesn’t sound healthy, but it doesn’t sound supernatural either.”
Laura couldn’t disagree, but then realized she had proof. “What about Elizabeth? What’s she doing here? She was buried in Illinois. How do you explain that?”
“That’s fairly simple,” he said and ferreted through a pile of papers next to his desk. “The family had her sent here…at least that’s what the papers said…I have them here somewhere. I talked to a woman on the phone about it.”
Laura wondered if Lucas had somehow done it behind her back. The way he’d been lately, it was possible. If so, she was about to look like an idiot.
“Here they are.” He lifted his head from the box and looked the papers over. “As I said, a member of the family—Anna Flecher, listed here as Elizabeth’s mother—made the arrangements.”
“Anna Flecher? Anna Flecher?” Laura said, voice rising.
“What?”
“That name keeps turning up. In a dream I had. The woman in the hallway. In the family tree, she was the first wife of Lucas’s thirteenth great-grandfather. We’re not even related. Why does her name keep showing up?” Laura didn’t mention the stone. Without proof, it would sound crazy.
“I don’t know. Certainly a quirky coincidence,” he said, eyebrows raised.
“Elizabeth’s mother has been dead for years and her maiden name was Culver, not Flecher.” Laura sat up straight as she finished, feeling vindicated.
“Well.” He continued fiddling with the papers. “This is highly unusual. There must be some explanation. You can’t just walk into a funeral home and have someone moved—not without substantial identification and proof that the move is the wish of the family or the next of kin.”
“Someone did.”
“I intend to investigate this carefully.”
“So, do you still think I’m crazy?”
“I never said you were crazy,” he said defensively. “I said I felt it was a psychological problem that was amenable to counseling, and for the most part, that’s still my opinion. I will promise you one thing.” He looked into her eyes. “For now, I’ll keep an open mind, that’s all I can promise. I’d like to see the album and anything else you might have, and we’ll go from there. If it turns out I’m right, you must promise to see a therapist, okay?”
“Fair enough,” Laura said. “I’ll drop those things off in the morning if that’s okay.”
“That’ll be fine.”
Laura stood to leave, and together, they walked down the narrow hallway.
“I’m sure everything will work out. And Laura, I’d like to thank you for coming to see me and placing your trust in the church. Not enough people turn to us when they run into trouble.”
“Thank you for your time.”
He put his arms out, offering a hug, and she took it. It was chaste and reassuring.
At that moment, Laura saw Lucas drive by.
She started to raise a hand but stopped, stunned by the angry look he threw her.
Forty-Three
When Laura stopped to pick Leah up, she felt distracted, off balance. Janice’s sudden illness was deeply disturbing.
“Any news on Janice Foster yet?” Laura asked.
“No. Nothing. She’s still in the ICU.” Brenda looked distraught and rushed her out the door. As Laura walked to the car, she wondered whether Janice’s sudden illness was a coincidence? An omen? A warning?
Who was Anna Flecher? Why did that name keep cropping up? Was it part of an elaborate plot to run them off the property?
Possible but quite paranoid. Regardless, it was working. Laura didn’t think she could stay in the house much longer. Lucas wouldn’t leave. He’d call her crazy if he talked to her at all.
She buckled Leah into the car seat and steered the Honda home as Leah jabbered away. Smiled; that kid was good for her mood. Turning into the driveway, she was surprised to see Dana’s car. Jesus! With all that had happened in the past few days, Laura had forgotten she was coming.
Dana pulled a suitcase from t
he trunk as she walked up, Leah in tow. They hugged and Laura led her into the house, taking her on the grand tour. She hadn’t been to the house since they did the finishing work.
“God, Mom, the place looks amazing. So whatever happened with HGTV?”
“Not sure. Ashley was handling it, and we haven’t spoken.”
Dana knitted her brow. “Still? That seems so unlike Ashley.”
“I know. I’ve kind of written her off.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon talking, first about Dana’s problem at school. Laura then described the events of the past few days but said little about Lucas. Dana, ever the attentive listener, was silent until Laura finished.
“I don’t know, Mom. The reverend makes sense. There has been a lot of stress in your life,” Dana said. “The telekinetic thing is spooky, though.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So maybe a little therapy wouldn’t be a bad idea?”
Laura shrugged, wished it was that simple. She and Dana talked through dinner, then retired to the Hall with a bottle of wine and Scrabble. Much of the evening, Laura was distracted by the idea that Anna Flecher might simply be an elaborate ruse to scare her away. Nothing else made sense. The woman had been dead five hundred years. She avoided discussing Lucas until Dana could spend time with him, though he hadn’t come home for dinner. Perhaps she wouldn’t have the chance.
Around ten, Dana announced she was exhausted and went to bed in the guest room. Laura slipped into Leah’s room and stood there, staring at her angelic face before planting a kiss on her cheek. At times, she felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of raising this innocent and trusting child. Was Leah safe here? The reverend and Dana seemed to think so. Maybe she did need a counselor, not an exorcist. That was the logical and most reasonable explanation.
What about Lucas? Laura no longer understood him. What was driving the unraveling of their marriage? Grief? Anger? Infidelity? She didn’t know, and he wouldn’t talk about it. Giving him time no longer seemed reasonable. He grew more distant every day. The marriage might be a lost cause.
Too anxious to sit and read, she walked downstairs to her workshop. The lamp she was making, an order through Etsy, remained unfinished. She was over deadline and hadn’t worked on it in days. It felt like things were piling up, growing unmanageable.
